


Scotch...No Rocks

by NephilimEQ



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Lots of Touching, M/M, cas being a cute drunk, drunk fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester just wants some damn ice...and he wants to get drunk. Castiel unexpectedly decides to join him, which may or may not be a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scotch...No Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour. I got a second prompt that hadn't been used for the SPN Writing Challenge, so I went with it and had a blast! Hope you enjoy it!

 

 

** Scotch…No Rocks **

Dean sauntered out into the bunker’s kitchen, wearing nothing but his robe and a pair of boxers, an empty glass in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other.  Putting the scotch on the counter, he swung open the door to the freezer…and cursed.

No ice.

Dammit.

Shit.

Fuck.

The _one_ time he needed ice, and they were out.  He slammed the door closed with more force than was necessary, but didn’t have any satisfaction when he felt the whole refrigerator unit shake at the violence wrought upon it. 

Yes, he liked scotch as much as the next man, but, unlike how it used to be, where he could down half a bottle of Jack Daniels and sleep it off in a few hours, his aging hunter’s body no longer took the abuse that it used to, and so, scotch on the rocks had become his go-to drink of choice when he simply wanted to wind down.  But now…no rocks.  And he was pissed.  How hard was it to keep ice in the ice maker?  But, of course, when one had Sam for a brother it was next to impossible, as he used it every morning in his _damn_ smoothies.

Feeling rebellious, and knowing that he would still be regretting it come morning, he poured himself a liberal amount into his glass and quickly shot back a large swig, wincing as it hit the back of his throat, knowing his hangover would most likely start even before he hit the sheets.

It was that moment that Castiel chose to walk in, wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts.

“Dean?” he asked in that way of his, his head tilted and his eyes adorably confused.  Hold up…adorable?  Where the hell had _that_ come from?  Shaking his head, Dean replied with, “Yes, Cas, I am drinking.  I might already be drunk, actually,” he added, taking a smaller sip of the alcohol and shaking his head.  “No ice means less time to get drunk.”

The angel just nodded his head as if he understood, which he most likely didn’t, and then stepped forward into the kitchen and grabbed a matching glass from the cupboard and then shocked Dean when he proceeded to pour himself the same amount of scotch and mimic the same two swigs that Dean had just taken, with a slight smile on his face as he did.

He then said, “I believe it is human custom to never drink alone, is it not?”

Not seeing a valid argument against Castiel’s point, Dean shrugged and nodded.

“You’re not wrong,” he said, pouring both of them a little bit more.  He then raised his glass to Cas, who followed suit, and said, “To never drinking alone,” and then, after tapping his glass against the angel’s, he took another long swig, hiding his wince as he saw the angel have virtually no reaction to the eighty-proof.

Giving him a look with an arched eyebrow, Dean asked, “Can you even _get_ drunk, Cas?”

His blue eyes looked down at the drink in his hand and he said, “I suspect so, Dean.  Ever since I fell I have been becoming more and more human, having to take care of basic urges that I never had to before, and, I believe, that getting drunk with one’s best friend is a time honored tradition, as well, among humans, and something that I wish to partake in.”

He then looked up at him with such a wide smile, almost innocent in its sweet nature, that Dean had to fight back the urge to laugh at the sight.  Who knew that the angel could understand so much and still know so little?  But, at the same time, it was so endearing seeing him try to be more human, that the hunter decided to simply roll with it.  Sam was nowhere to be found (probably in the library), and Dean knew that if he was left alone to his own devices, he would have stupidly tried to drink the whole bottle by himself out of simple bitterness at not having ice.

He looked at Cas and as they clinked glasses once more, Dean said, “To always finishing the bottle,” and the angel smiled once more…but this time, perhaps it was just the alcohol affecting his mind, he could have sworn that he saw a glint in the angel’s eye…but then it was gone, so he shrugged it off.

* * *

An hour later, they were lounging on the couch, using each other’s shoulders to try and keep themselves from falling over…and failing miserably.  Castiel had the bottle of Jack Daniel’s (or was it the second bottle?) and clumsily poured them both another shot, to which they tapped glasses, and Castiel mumbled some sort of cheers in Ennochian, to which Dean slurred, “Good enough for me,” and they threw back their shots, the movement causing Dean’s left shoulder to slip just enough so that Cas landed sideways in his lap.

Letting out a low chuckle, Cas managed to move to his back so that his head was pillowed on the hunter’s left thigh, causing his own boxer shorts to ride up, and looked up at him and said, “This is different.”

“…’ow’s that, Cas?”

He rolled his head, causing a strange tingle to shoot up Dean’s leg and clear some of the cobwebs from his head.  The angel, who was obviously drunk, replied, “Looking up at you.  I’ve always had a…well, I guess you could call it a bird’s-eye view of you.  As an angel, it was kind of hard not to,” he added, smirking, and Dean, at hearing that, came to a wonderful realization.

Castiel, when drunk, was actually _funny_.

He let out a chuckle and then reached down and snagged the bottle from his hands, deliberately ignoring the spark that traveled along his hand and through his wrist when their fingers brushed against each other.  Putting his glass down, he took a drink straight from the bottle.  Cas made a sound of protest beneath him, and, with surprising dexterity that defied his drunkenness, he snagged the bottle back and took his own sip, licking his lips as he handed it back to Dean.

“Mmmm,” he groaned out, his tongue darting out once more over his now glistening lips.  “You taste like pine trees and leather…”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply took another swig, swallowing nervously as the angel suddenly shifted his head on his thigh once more.  He put the bottle on the same table as his glass and said, in a slightly shaky voice, “I think we’ve both had enough, Cas.  Like I said before…no ice means we get drunk quicker.  It also means one hell of a hangover.”

“Wha’s a hangover?”

At that simple question, Dean let out a large laugh that he couldn’t contain.  Oh, how he was going to love showing him all of the perks of being human.  As he laughed, however, he noticed Cas look at him, bewildered by his reaction, and he just shook his head and said, through his coughing fits, “You’ll find out soon enough, man,” and then proceeded to help Cas stand so that he could get him back to his room.

When he stumbled into his room with Castiel’s arm still wrapped around his shoulder, too tired to try and make it the rest of the way down the hallway to the angel’s room, he thought nothing of it when they both tumbled onto his bed.

* * *

Slowly waking up, Dean was aware of a splitting headache, and he let out a low pained groan as he tried to open his eyes.  Even with no natural light in the bunker, it was still too bright to even dare attempt to expose his precious retinas to any amount of light.  He attempted to roll over, but found himself stopped by a very warm, very _firm_ mass behind him.  Wracking his brain, he managed to salvage a memory of drinking with Cas the night before…and then remembered.

That’s right.  They had decided to crash in his room, as Castiel’s was too far away for both of them to make it to.

Which meant that Cas was the one who was comfortably spooned up behind him, his bare chest pressed up against his back (when had he lost his shirt?), his legs tucked snugly behind his and right arm wrapped loosely around his waist, the fingers of his right hand _dangerously_ low.  Dean’s first instinct was to bolt from the situation and head straight for the kitchen to get a cup of good, strong coffee…but his conscience kept him from moving a muscle.

Leave Cas in his bed like a jilted lover?  Never.  Not that they’d…not that they even _liked_ each other like that…or that they would _ever_ …never mind, bad analogy.  And yet, it was the only analogy the hunter could think of, because all he could see in his mind’s eye was the way Castiel would look if he woke up to find the bed empty, and he saw the same look on his face as the time when he’d told him that he had to leave the bunker…and he couldn’t bear it.  So, he stayed.

A few minutes later, the angel stirred, and Dean waited for him to be shocked and appalled by their situation, but was pleasantly surprised when a low gravelly voice, more rough than normal, said against the back of his neck, “Good morning, Dean,” causing low vibrations to travel along his spine.

He felt like he should be disgusted by his body’s all too pleasant reaction to the angel’s proximity, but found that he wasn’t.

Instead, feeling bold, he turned around in the angel’s loose grip, their faces barely an inch apart, and he said, softly, “How’s your head, Cas?”

Giving him a perplexed look, furrowed brow and all, Castiel replied, “It’s fine, Dean, why do you--?”  He cut himself off and let out a groan of pure pain, one that Dean recognized in an instant and he couldn’t help but grin at hearing it, even though he nursed the same pain.  Pressing a hand to his head, Castiel growled out, “Why did you let me drink, Dean?”

Dean pulled back and sat up on the bed and said, “Oh, if my memory serves right, it was _your_ idea to join me, not mine.  I believe you said something about never drinking alone and something along the lines of it being a time-honored tradition, so it’s not _my_ fault.  If you want to blame anyone,” he added, throwing the covers off his legs and heading towards the door, trying not ogle the angel’s bared chest as he went, “You might want to blame Sammy.  It’s his damn fault we had to drink straight last night.”

And with that, he left the room, heading for the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

When he walked in, his brother was already in there, fully dressed and showered, looking like he had just stepped out of Lumber & Wood magazine, wearing his blue jeans and red flannel shirt, a cup of…what was that?  Hot tea?  Never mind, forget the woodsman analogy, that had just been shot to hell with the mint that he could smell emanating from the mug in his hand.

“Tea, Sam?  Really?”

“Good morning to you, too,” he said, raising an eyebrow.  “What’s up with you?  You look like you got pulled backwards through a hedge.”

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled out filters and started the coffee pot, determined to clench his jaw and bear through the pain until he could get some caffeine in him.  His brother’s snide remarks weren’t going to get to him, he wasn’t going to let it.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”  He pulled out a few sugar packets, ignoring Sam’s wince as he did, and then said, “Because _some_ one used up all the ice yesterday morning for their ‘protein shake’, I got to have scotch on the rocks…with _out_ the rocks.  My liver thanks you.”

Sam snorted and, looking down at his mug, said, “Not drinking didn’t even occur to you, did it?”

Just as Dean was about to snap back a quick rejoinder, Cas walked in…well, more like slouched in, wearing what he’d been wearing the night before, but with Dean’s robe thrown over top, and he grunted out, “Your bed hurt my back, Dean.”  Dean nodded at him, smirked, and then said, “Coffee’s comin’ right up, Cas.  Don’t worry.  Those aches and pains will be gone in _no_ time...”

The angel, looking as wrung out as Dean, with his hair spiked and scruff coming in dark along his jaw, sans shirt in his boxers, Dean’s robe, and nothing else, simply nodded, and then proceeded to walk over and invade Dean’s personal space, reaching over him to grab a bagel from above his head, while the hunter in question just shook his head and smiled, seemingly not bothered by the angel’s proximity.  Castiel paused and returned Dean’s grin, and then moved to sit down at the table.

The entire time, Sam had stared at the scene in front of him, still trying to wrap his head around it…and could only come to one conclusion from the sum off all its’ parts.

“Well, uh,” he said, letting out a small uncomfortable cough, “Congratulations, guys.  I didn’t think it would happen so soon, but I’m glad it did.  It’s about time you finally admitted your feelings for each other.”

At this, they both turned to look at him, identical looks of confusion on their faces.

“What are you talkin’ about, man?”

That was Dean, of course.  Cas, on the other hand, while looking confused, at hearing Dean’s words his eyes slipped over to look at him, as though surprised, and a look of hurt seemed to cross his ruggedly handsome features.  Sam immediately realized his mistake and threw up a hand, saying, “Nothing.  Never mind, forget I said anything,” and left the room, muttering under his breath about sexually repressed, bisexual brothers, heard by neither two of the room’s other occupants.

Dean stood a moment longer at the coffee maker and then, as soon as it was ready, poured both of them large mugs and headed to the table, where Castiel was already sitting.

“Here you go, man,” he said, sliding the steaming mug in front of him.

Castiel stared at it…and then took a sip, and smiled when he tasted it.  He lifted his eyes, and said, simply, “Thank you, Dean.  I am sorry that I inconvenienced you last night.  I will endeavor to be more cautious of my alcohol intake in the future so that I am always capable of walking back to my own quarters.”

At hearing that, Dean chuckled and replied, “Hey, it’s alright, Cas.  I don’t mind waking up to you…”

Crap. 

Shit.

Fuck.

Had he just said that out loud?  Dammit. He hadn’t _meant_ to say it out loud.  He silently cursed the coffee for not kicking in soon enough and setting his mind and mouth back in proper working order and on normal filtering protocol.  He had _not_ meant to say that out loud.

He closed his eyes and didn’t dare look in Cas’s direction…but, after a long silence, he tentatively opened his eyes and looked over at the angel, who sat at a right angle to his right side, sitting in the chair at the end of table.  And instead of finding a dark frown, a furrowed brow, or a look of genuine confusion, he was instead greeted with a soft, enigmatic smile that rested on the angel’s lips, identical to the one that he’d had when he’d told him and Sam that he was going to become a hunter.

“You…don’t mind?”

Seeing the hope in his eyes, Dean felt no need to extinguish it, so he simply nodded. 

There was another long moment of silence…and then, in a move that shocked the hunter, but thrilled him all the same, the angel leaned in and captured his lips in an ardent kiss, surprisingly adept for an angel who had very little sexual experience, and Dean moaned into it, unable to keep the sound from escaping.

The next thing he knew, he was being hauled across the table by very strong arms and being pressed into it with angelic force, all while his mouth was being ravaged.  Unable to do anything but agree with what was happening, Dean let himself be pressed down onto the table, enjoying every second of feeling Castiel’s body firmly along his, thigh to thigh, hip to hip…hand to hand.  He had Dean’s hands in his own, holding him down, and Dean knew, even as they explored each other’s mouths with tongue and teeth, that, if he wanted to, he could throw the angel off and he would let him…but he didn’t want to.

He tried to return the pressure as best he could from where he lay prone on his back, and smiled when he heard Cas groan into his mouth, the vibrations lingering fondly, and just as one of Castiel’s hands let go of his and two of his fingers were slipping _just_ below Dean’s waistband…

…Someone coughed.

They both froze and looked up to see Sam standing in the doorway, mug in his hand.

“Yeah, I, uh,” he coughed a second time.  “I was just getting some more tea, but, uh…I’ll just…”  He turned as if to leave, but then stopped and turned back around and said, in a stern voice.  “Actually, no.  This is the kitchen, for god’s sake, and I want to have my breakfast in peace!  Can you guys do this somewhere…else?”

Cas smirked down at Dean.

“I am certain that can be arranged.”

He quickly stood up and waited for Dean to move around him to head back towards his bedroom, and just as they left, Castiel threw over his shoulder, “As Dean said earlier this morning, we can blame you for this.  You _did_ use up all the ice.”

Sam just snorted and proceeded to the island, where the kettle was still sitting, but then was surprised when Cas then looked over his shoulder to make sure Dean was gone, and then said, in a lower tone, “Feel free to use as much ice as you like, Sam.”

Sam simply stared at the now empty doorway…and then, after a moment, he laughed.

More ice for him, it seemed.

 

 


End file.
